


Frenetic.

by fearless_seas



Series: Thirteen Years. [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Memories, Nightmares, Sexual Content, Showers, Sleep Deprivation, Smut, Teasing, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: (a) being fast and energetic in a rather wild and uncontrolled way.





	Frenetic.

**Author's Note:**

> I think Finn is my motivation for writing at this point. Anyways, I hope Finn sees this, I dunno if they will, haha.

****\----- 1983 -----** **

**March 26th**

 

          Every time Alain checks his rearview mirrors he can still see the red Ferrari. It picks itself, flies up and tumbles into a roll over cutting gravel. It gets to the point that he pictures it sometimes in his dreams and he wakes up with a choked voice alone in his motorhome. He spends the rest of the night staring and watching lights fade in and out on his ceiling as if it will make any difference at all. The bed of his motorhome is uncomfortable and he gets up at one am to rent a hotel room overlooking the California coastline. He could do this forever, he imagines as his fingers curl over the bars of the balcony and taffy colored sunshine is splashing itself over the almost gold quality of the sands. Alain knows, however, he’d get bored with the same sky every day. He dresses instead and draws himself away from the windy cold. _Do not let anyone convince you California is warm year round, because it is not_.

          Somehow, Nelson is wearing shorts in the bitter chill of the spring weather on the paddock. He scopped him up and down as he passes, shouldering his bag and attempting to flatten the hunch in his curled shoulders. A little coil of distaste marked itself at the corner of their mouth as the murky trail of their eyes passed over him. “You look like shit,” Nelson scoffed and Alain growled silently as he went away, ignoring him and heading off to the garage. He hadn’t noticed he had been followed until he was slipping another layer over his arms to guard from the bitter breeze and a shadow passes on his right. “No, I am being serious,” Alain peers over and they are standing there shoulders back and arms hooked over their chest. “You didn’t sleep last night, didn't you?”, they asked and Alain knows it is no use lying because they are reading him as no one else knows how to.

          “Not in the slightest,” he presses his fingers over his eyelids and again it plays on his mind: the tumble and coil of fiberglass as it rains over his cockpit. If it were any different situation he may say that it appeared rather beautiful: the shine of it like little stars trickling out from a long winter to bask in the sun.

          “You know,” Nelson droned, coming a little closer until his hip pressed into his. “If you had been a good little boy and come into my bed you would’ve been out like a light last night,” he said it rather quietly as if he was telling a secret.  _Out like a light_.

          “Honestly, Nelson, I am not in the mood,” Alain signed and combed his hair back with his hands.

          “That wasn’t what you were telling me in Brazil,” Nelson smirked, “‘Oh, Nelson! Harder Nelson! Give it to me good and--”

          Alain slugged him in the stomach immediately.

 

________________________

**March 27th**

 

          But they did go at it after the race. When it is done Nelson falls onto his back with his forearm shielding his eyes. Alain steals a moment to catch his breath before slipping shakily off of the bed and snatching his clothes off from the floor.

          Nelson angles himself up on an elbow when the jingle of a belt buckle is heard. “Your hand are shaking,” he notices, eyes falling to the trembling in his palms. Alain hadn’t particularly been attempting to hide it but now that this characteristic was out in the open he wished he had hid it better. “I wasn’t that rough with you this time,” he let out an out of place chuckle, one that was forced out to break up tension.

          “It is not you,” Alain mutters, slipping his legs back into his pants and doing up his zipper. “Why are you asking?”, he shot a gaze over to him. Nelson’s eyes were soft at the edges like chocolate beginning to melt in the sun. “What happened to no more emotional bullshit?”, his shirt went on next. Buttons climbing up his chest and closing over his throat like a noose.

          “My emotional bullshit is a no,” he clarified. _So, where does that leave me?_ Alain catches sight of himself in the mirror on his right as he messes with his hair (not as if he could ever make it an improvement). He seems tired, the creases at the corners of his eyes were firmer and he had a blank expression. He snaps his gaze away quickly from the mirror and undoes the top button of his shirt.

          “Have you ever seen something…”, he stopped to re-calibrate his thoughts. He swallowed, “Seen something that stays with you," Nelson looks confused. "You know... you see it when you close your eyes,” he doesn’t pose it like a question. But that Ferrari is there, he pictures it and every time he blinks it is there at the edge of his thoughts, on the fibers of his brain.

          “Sure,” Nelson shrugs meekly, “Haven’t we all at one point?” He lays back in the mattress on his side and follows him with his eyes. “I could make room if you--”

          “--No,” Alain cut him off then and there, “Let us not make this more than it is.”

          Nelson didn’t say anything more.

          That night Alain chases his thoughts across the eggshell ceiling plaster. The window is open so he can hear the crash of waves as they break on the shore outside the balcony. This time when he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see Didier or even Gilles, it is Nelson he envisions instead: the rain drenching their hair and the sharp sting of fear in their eyes like nothing else. There is hidden vulnerability that exists in a man so hardened by experience. Maybe that scares him more than any car flying over his head.

 

______________________

**April 17th**

 

          Alain circles the rim of his glass with the edge of his finger tip. He is sitting at the bar and Nelson is nursing his drink nice and slow. It isn’t loud at all, the atmosphere is actually quite mellow, relaxed.

          “Did you hear what happened to Mansell today?”, Nelson smugly turns his head to the right, leaning over the bar counter with his elbow propped up.

          Alain took a sip and widened his eyes comically, “Oh dear lord, what happened now?”

          “He was run over,” Nelson grinned.

          “What?”, Alain coughed.

          “His team was pushing his car this morning before the race and ran his own fucking toes over.”

          “Oh my god, they did not.”

          Nelson nodded urgently. “Why do you think he retired?”, he was suppressing a laugh now, “He couldn’t drive his car because of his toes. His fucking toes.”

          Alain waited a long moment, searching Nelson’s face before he bursted into laughter then and there like a startled child.

 

___________________________

**May 1st**

 

          In Italy, Alain is standing on the podium next to winner Patrick Tambay when they dedicated their win to Gilles. Alain recognizes, when he squints at the bright, collective sun spluttering through the cloudy skies like an angel splitting the heavens, that Gilles knows that. Somehow, Gilles knows about this. Occasionally Gilles doesn't feel real to him, as if they were just fading laughter around a dinner table, forgotten, beautiful and faded to time and age. Alain thinks of that a lot.

 

_____________________

**May 22nd**

 

          Nelson is in his hotel room fully clothed (for once) and Alain is pacing the room picking up his items that somehow were scattered across the floor. Oh, and maybe he was ranting as well.

          “They favored Rene last year and now Eddie,” he murmured hastily, he didn’t even bother placing the items neatly back into his suitcase, he just tossed them in the general direction and continued onwards. “They are too conservative in constructing the car, they hate me and I am never going to win a world championship,” he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face exhaustedly. It was oddly silent and he deviated to face Nelson who had the corners of his mouth pulled down, staring into space. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”, he questioned, frowning and planting his hands on his hips 

          “I am thinking,” Nelson managed, blinking himself out of it.

          Alain snorted, “For once, I see.” He walked into the bathroom and started the tap in the shower. He ran his hand underneath it a few times for temperature and he came around to rip his shirt off. Nelson is standing there now, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. “I am having a shower, I am not going to fuck right now,” he kicked off his pants.

          “I am not interested in fucking you in the shower, don’t worry,” Nelson shot his hands up in defense. “Your hair wet probably looks like… as…”, he paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is the thing,” he looked up and Alain stared back in confusion, “The thing!” He wrung his hands quickly, “They clean the floors when it is wet.”

          “A… mop?”

          He clapped his hands eagerly, “Yes! Your hair will look like that.”

          Alain was not amused, “A mop?”

          “A mop.”

          Alain shook his head and climbed into the tub, shutting the glass door behind him. He ran the water up through his hair and when he opened his eyes he could vaguely see Nelson’s silhouette sitting on the mantelpiece near the bathroom sink through the grating.

          “Just confront them,” Nelson shouted over the roar of the water.

          Alain moved his face away, “They’ll fire me, they have threatened it before.”

          “I have never let anyone push me around.”

          “Good for you,” he rolled his eyes.

          “Not even my father.” This made Alain pause and perk his ears up. The rarity of a mention on their lips was extraordinary. “One day you just have to stop being scared of whoever is pushing you.”

          It crossed Alain’s mind then the implication of what he just said. He can’t ever imagine Nelson being frightened of anything, let alone anyone. Then again as the water rains over him and he observes a drop as it trails over his bare forearm and onto the tile floor, he recalls Nelson’s eyes wide and staring into his that day. Deep down he senses that Nelson is frightened of something but maybe that he’ll never know what it is.

_One day you just have to stop being scared..._

 

_________________________

**July 16th**

 

          When Nelson barrels towards him after the podium he is expecting to receive a punch to his face or perhaps even to his gut. Instead they slow right before getting to him, snap their head side to side and then back him into the far end of garage where not another person is. They place their hands balled at the stomach of his racing overalls as if he was some type of safety net in a storm. Their hair is soaked in champagne and Alain’s back hits the wall. He gulps, prepares himself and expects Nelson to scrape his fingers over his neck and berate him for stealing his win. Instead they pause, still and then move to scoop one of Alain’s curls off of his forehead behind his ear. The small intimacy of this action takes his breath away and Nelson doesn’t kiss him even if their lips are already brushing and they are hungry to more than anything.

          “You did good today,” that is all Nelson says before releasing his hands from him and stepping away.

          Alain scrutinizes him as his back turns down the hall and disappears. His mind swims for a minute and he knows it isn’t the alcohol that is steadily soaking into his skin. He glances down to his midsection and the wrinkles from their fists that are just starting to unravel and straighten on the material.

 

____________________

 

          Alain guesses they decided to wait because that night Nelson quite nearly scrapes up every inch of his skin. He bruises his lips with that magnitude of his touch, left him weak and trembling afterwards in a most pleasurable way possible. Rough hands and a tender heart (he’ll never get Nelson to admit it, the fragility of his emotions). It's best this way: Nelson taking control because he has memorized every single spot that makes him quiver and shake. Alain never complains. The desire is intense for Alain; not for Nelson, but for the way he makes him feel, the form he leaves him in afterwards. And Alain worries it is quite the opposite for them.

          Oh, he definitely worries.

 

_______________________

**August 28th**

 

          But they fight sometimes too. It is messy when it happens but it occurs often (more than their liking). During the Dutch Grand Prix, Alain tries to pass Nelson only to lose control and ram into him. Out they go, off the track and retiring from the race together. Nelson climbs from his cockpit and Alain’s feet have already hit the gravel by the time they begin shouting. He cannot hear obviously because of his helmet but he sees they are yelling at him due to their wild gestures. They are taken away in the safety car and in the pit lane Nelson marches over.

          “What the fuck was that?”, he hollered, stabbing a finger into Alain’s chest at a force that somewhat pushes him back.

          “My brakes went out,” Alain stiffened his jaw and kept his hands down at his sides.

          Nelson stepped back a little, perhaps feeling the stare of the mechanics boring holes into his back. He uncurls his fist and marches back off down to the Brabham garage by himself, everyone watching him as he went. He has to remind himself sometimes that they are rivals and then he wonders what everyone would say knowing Alain Prost has on multiple occasions slid onto his knees in front of Nelson Piquet’s cock. He fumes with anger silently, tapping at the skin of his wrist until he feels the calm return to his bones. _There is always next time; we make mistakes; we can make mistakes_. And yet, another part of him knows, _when we make mistakes people die_. Neither end up apologizing, there is not need to. At the end of the day they are still drivers, racers and men trying to make their mark.

 

_______________________

**October 14th**

 

          Both go into the last race of the season in South Africa with a chance of winning the world championship. They don’t see each for the entire weekend. Alain can sense him, however, when he turns his back he feels their eyes trailing over his back end. But they don’t try to talk to each other either. Patrick is on pole and Alain worries (perhaps he does this too often). Nelson takes the second spot on the grid and Alain can only manage fifth. He replays things in his mind, even in bed or in the shower; he envision the race track, changes gears and figures out afterwards where he could of fixed it all and taken pole. It is too late now, he shakes his head and crawls into bed with energy surging in the pit of his stomach like a pack of wasps he’d swallowed were attempting to break through the gut wall.

          He turns over and pictures Nelson is next to him, his hands behind his head staring at the ceiling with one ankle resting on a bent knee. They are relaxed as if only what is happening now matters. Alain wishes he could think like that: to not think at all of repercussions. He wonders if tasting the podium champagne on a world champion’s tongue tastes different. That is a stupid thought, but even he thinks of that. He ponders if Nelson will be postulated beside him, if he’ll clap his shoulder and promise him a good fuck later; or perhaps he’ll do the opposite and Alain will see him next season without another verse. He does exactly what he knows Nelson would tell him to do if he was present:

          “ _Stop worrying, you have years, no use crying like a bitch._ ”

          Yes, _that is exactly what they would say._

 

_________________________

**October 15th**

 

          But Alain never gets to find out if the champagne tastes sweeter when he is a world champion standing on the podium. He never even touches the podium.

          The lights flash, the flag goes down and suddenly he lurches himself into third place by the end of the first few laps. Rene retires and it takes him out of contention. Suddenly he is sweating, his heart racing harder than it ever has before beneath his visor and he blinks sweat out of his eyes. He brakes last moment on curves, farther than he ever would if this were any normal race. But this isn’t a normal race, this is the world title in question. He is closing in, Riccardo in from front of him blocking any possible way to overtake Nelson. He seethed beneath his helmet in rage. He is so angry he nearly misses the gear shift several times because the blind spot on their tail flap is distracting him 

 _I am still winning the championship_.

          He repeats this with hope as he nearly passes Riccardo on a straight.

_I am still winning._

          He says this when his turbo fails on lap thirty-five.

 _Winning_.

          He places his forehead into his arm and leans over his car with his helmet still on.

 _The championship_.

          He is driven away to the paddock where he gets visibly angry for the first time in several years: kicking and punching at the wall behind the garage.

 _I’ve lost it_.

          He slides to the ground and puts his face in his hands. Somehow Nelson discovers him several hours later, still sitting there on the ground with knuckles that have reddened already from pressure. Alain doesn’t look up when he notices his shadow pass over him but Nelson reaches out a hand towards him.

          “You look miserable,” he scoffs and Alain hesitates before taking his hand. He hadn’t noticed that it was dark until he looked up eventually.

          “Thank you very fucking much,” he stifles out.

          He does end up grabbing their hand and standing up. Not even he understand why he did it. Nelson leads him into the passenger seat of his car before starting to drive. He doesn’t say anything the whole time. He simply waits instead .

          “I am not a shitty driver,” Alain mentions eventually after a long duration of reticence.

          “Nobody said that you were,” Nelson moved his head towards him, riping his eyes off of the road, “But if you keep thinking that then that is when you will really become a shitty driver.”

          The road is so dark they cannot see anything on either side. Alain falls asleep like this: in Nelson’s loaned car with his forehead against the glass and a bit of calm in his restless, agitated spirit. They wake him up at the hotel so that he can walk into the building but by that point Alain is too tired to care where he is going. His head hits the pillow and he is out with their fingers running up the shoots of his hair.

 

_______________________

**October 16th**

 

          The next morning he wakes up in a bed not his own and he slams up quickly. A large trophy is sitting on the table in the middle of the room and sunlight is coming in, through the windows, catching little rainbows on the carpet. 

          “Relax, I didn’t murder you.”

          Alain snaps his head to the corner of the room where Nelson is sitting with his eyes closed and his head bent back over the edge of the chair. They peeled one eye open when they noticed his movements. He finds when a chill settles over his bones that he is in nothing but his boxers. He swings his feet over the bed and scopes about for his clothes.

          “In the corner,” Nelson gestures before placing his hands back behind his head. They are there, neatly folded in a pile that almost makes him raise his brow at the curiosity of all this. The trophy catches his eye once again and he remembers everything that happens yesterday. Nelson notices him pausing, passing him a look as he redresses.

          “It is no use staying in the past,” he encourages, “There is always next year for me to kick your ass again.”

          Instead, Alain smiles sarcastically and shakes his head, “Don’t count on it.”

          He feels Nelson simper across the room. He closes the door behind him quietly and goes back to his hotel room without another word from either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Tumblr @piquets or @sonofhistory, if you read it please leave a comment. Seriously, leave a comment. Anyways, thanks for being here!


End file.
